


But A Step Between

by bexbiglee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angst?, Blow Jobs, Child Abuse, David and Jonathan were gay lovers, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fantasy, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Kink, Homophobia, M/M, Mentions of Rape, Minor Character Death(s), Past Relationship(s), Secret Lovers, Slow Build, Smut, Top!Cas, and so are Dean and Cas, bottom!Dean, david/jonathan parallel, i don't know how to tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-03-01 02:41:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13285227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexbiglee/pseuds/bexbiglee
Summary: The war against Lucifer and unholy magic prevails, and Castiel, crowned prince to the kingdom of Providence, makes an unexpected friend in a lowly soldier, Dean of Winchester.There's something about the lister that has Castiel persuading his power hungry and despotic father into letting Dean and his brother join the Holy Guard, despite their status.He has no way of knowing that by recruiting Dean to his personal guard he would be signing over not only his own fate, but the fate of the entire kingdom.





	But A Step Between

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sarahmeeps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahmeeps/gifts).



> Oh god. I'm posting my first fic. I'm both terrified and excited. This thing has been sitting incomplete in my folder for entirely too long, and I hope by posting this I'll actually be able to finish it. 
> 
> I dedicate this story to my best friend, sarahmeeps.  
> Without your encouragement and enthusiasm, I never would have even started this bitch.
> 
> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are a product of yours truly. I'll be updating this thing whenever I have the time. I don't own any of the characters (obviously), though the story is completely mine. 
> 
> AU-Fantasy setting of my own creation. This fic is intended to be a parallel to the biblical story of David and Jonathan where I got most of my inspiration, along with the history of the expansion of the Roman Empire. 
> 
> Welp, hope you enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT (4/19/18): I came back to this after taking some time off, and I've done a small amount of editing that might clarify somethings and add some details.

“Th-the 3rd Legion and its Holy cavalry will arrive at dawn, Sire.” The messenger stood at attention just inside the doorway next to the royal guards posted at the entrance. 

Castiel looked up from the tattered map sprawled out on the oak table in his father’s tent. The tent was decorated with fine crimson linens, golden candlesticks, soft pelts cut from his forefather's victories. The perfume of sage and honeysuckle filled the enclosure. 

Everything fit for a king. None of it fit for battle. 

The young messenger, Samandriel, if Castiel could recall correctly, let the warmth of the tent envelope him. His eyes were weary from the endless days of war. He was tired, his face smeared with soot, his cheekbones hollow. His nose and ears were reddened and swollen from the sharp bite of the winter winds. His hands in tight fists at his sides were riddled with dry blood, broken skin, and thick calluses. 

This had been their life for the past 14 months, conquering the world one village at a time. It wouldn't be long now until the world would be united under one banner, his banner, and the armies of the western King Lucifer defeated. 

Well, perhaps united was wishful thinking. Under no circumstances would the nation of Providence be united, not after the slaughter committed by his own father. Not after the countless crimes that bloodied his own smooth, unmarred hands…

He wanted no part of the new world his father was creating. Yet, here he was--by his side, heir to the throne. Ears and nose red, not from the bitter cold, but from the heat of the fire keeping him warm at night while his men huddle together until daylight. Who knew how hungry they were, how worn they had become over months of marching and battle, how disheartened they had grown without the promise of loved ones... 

A true king would be out with men in the cold as an equal, defending them, understanding them, not using them as pawns for political gain. But what could he do? Where would he go? Almost the entire known world belonged to his father now. There was no place left to hide. 

 

For years Castiel cowered under his father’s tyranny. The promise of one day taking the throne and undoing the damage wrought seemed out of reach, but every day was a day closer to stopping the rising number of the dead bodies left in their wake. 

Castiel had grown weary, too.

“Very good. See to the preparation of their accommodations,” King Michael dismissed the messenger with a wave, his gaze still on the battle plans.

Castiel bit his cheek. What accommodations? The ones you’re taking from the Auxilia to pamper your precious purebloods, keeping the backbone of your army cold and hungry?

Samandriel ducked his head at the King’s dismissal and backed away without turning his back toward the Holy One and his kin, hesitating briefly before exiting the tent. Perhaps savoring the last bit of warmth for a while. 

“A day ahead of schedule. Very good, indeed,” he spoke aloud to himself. “Tomorrow we will convene with the generals and your brother to solidify our victory over those magic-tainted heathens at Carthage. I have no doubt that in no more than a month’s time, the northern lands will be claimed in the name of the Lord of Hosts. And after that, we’ll make our way east.” He walked around the edge of the table and placed his hand firmly on Castiel’s shoulder. “Soon this land will be ours,” he said more quietly with an encouraging smile. 

Castiel nodded and looked back to the map.

“What troubles you, my son?”

Castiel wet his lips. “Nothing, your majesty.”

The king gave a sympathetic look. “Do you doubt our success?” Castiel wanted to laugh. How could any of this be success when innocent people were being slaughtered like cattle. He didn't doubt the outcome of this war.

When Castiel didn't respond, the king continued, no doubt in an attempt at consolation. “Fate is in our side. Our numbers surpass that of our enemy. No army can stand against the Holy Host. Victory is nigh! I will be crowned King over all Providence, and you, my son, at my right hand.” The hand on his shoulder squeezed tighter and jostled him lightly. “This is a joyous occasion.” 

“Yes…Father.” Castiel paused at the familial term. “I am honored to be at your side.” Safety? Power? How could he respond any other way but with honor?

The king removed his hand from his son’s shoulder and huffed in satisfaction as the words. 

“…It is only…” Castiel saw Samandriel’s face in his mind. 

“Speak your mind, my child.”

“...It has been a long journey, and some grow tired. They have not known the comfort of home in 14 months and--”

Michael argued casually, “Our previous campaigns to unite the western lands lasted nearly 5 years. 14 months is but a blink in comparison. And these are soldiers. They understand the trouble of war, Castiel. Plus, the very idea of home interferes with the integration process, of this you well know. It stirs doubts and distractions throughout the ranks. The sooner we organize and make our attack on Carthage, the sooner we may return home before we move our efforts East.”

Castiel continued with purpose. “If Samandriel was any indication of the state of the Auxilia--”

“Samandriel?” Of course, the king wouldn't know to whom he was referring. 

“The messenger. There was something in his eyes that looked…broken.”

“Get to the point, Castiel. What exactly are you asking?” he clipped, patience starting to wear thin. 

Castiel heard one of the royal guards clear their throat. He shot a glance to the guards at the door. Almost imperceptibly, Balthazar shook his head at his prince, but Castiel ignored his plea. 

“Though we are ahead of schedule, we could not have anticipated the early winter which brings a number of difficulties. And with the arrival of other regiments, the resources will be scarce. Perhaps, we hold off our attack against Carthage. Wait for more supplies to arrive before we march even further north to the last encampment. These are soldiers and they have understood well the difficulties of the march. We may have numbers, but numbers will have little impact if our soldiers are weathered and worn.”

Michael's expression went hard as pondered his words for a moment. “You do a great dishonor to them by questioning their resolve. They are much stronger than your words insinuate.”

“I agree. The Auxilia are brave and stalwart. They are no stranger to discomfort and are very capable in the face of difficulties. My only concern is the strain on resources in attempt to accommodate the 3rd Legion and cavalry.”

Anger rose in Michael’s voice, a glimmer of blue forming in the center of his pupils. “Am I hearing you correctly, Castiel? That you would put the needs of these foreigners before your our own citizens?”

“What? No, I--”

“If the Auxilia desire a warm cot, they can enjoy it under a united banner when they return home in victory. If they want full bellies, they can feast in the halls of our conquered foes. You are asking for things we cannot afford. Not until Lucifer is defeated. Our first priority must be his undoing, as quickly as possible. In order to do that, we need the most highly trained regiments at their best by providing safety and nourishment to those who sit at our table, not the dogs who roll around on the floor and feast on the scraps,” Michael spat as he closed the space between them, glowing blue eyes looming over Castiel’s form. “Are you questioning the King’s judgment?”

Castiel was a fool. A coward. “No, I meant no disrespect, my king. I was only thinking for the good of the Kingdom.” 

“May I be frank?” It wasn’t a question. “The good of the Kingdom is to remember your own, Castiel, not the war fodder. You are not their father, brother, or friend. You are a Child of the Holy now, a citizen of Ilchester, and one day you will be their king. You would do well to remember: They are not our equal.” Michael took a step closer. His face was inches from Castiel. Not quite a whisper, he continued, “In case you have forgotten, I hold your future in the palm of my hand, boy. Your self-righteous ignorance in this matter only mirrors the foolishness of that traitorous hag.” 

Michael knew he’d won as he watched Castiel wince. Because that was all it took for Castiel to break. One mention of all those years ago. He grit his teeth and ashamedly bowed his head in submission. After a moment, he spoke, “Forgive me… Father.”

Michael’s eyes softened into pity. “No harm done, my son. You are young. Through your eyes, reigning the kingdom is but a distant future. I know you care for the people. That is good. But take care that your love for the people does not become your downfall. Remember that.”

Castiel didn’t speak, watching his boot delicately scuff edge of the ornamented rug beneath his feet.

“You are dismissed.” Michael turned back to the map sprawled out on the table without another glance toward Castiel. “Grace be with you.”

“...And with you, my King.”

 

____________________________

 

Castiel left the tent in a hurry, feet crunching along the snow dusted gravel, his personal guard never leaving his side. 

He mentally blamed the drop in temperature for the moisture he blinked away from his eyes. 

Time was said to heal all wounds, but how could it when just as the wound began to seal itself it was violently ripped back open? He hated being manipulated with her memory like this. But he was weak, and Michael knew it.

It still baffled Castiel right before the first assault against Lucifer’s armies when Michael named him heir instead of Raphael, as it should have been. 

Castiel, the false son of the king...

He never had to courage to ask why Michael chose him. Even the people knew of Castiel’s unworthy heritage, and yet he was next in line for the crown. 

The entire Kingdom of Providence was counting on him to lead them into the future. He didn't know where to start. 

He let out the long, shaky breath he had been holding, a white cloud momentarily blurring his vision of the numerous encampments surrounding him. 

Dirty bandages, tattered clothing, worn and muddy boots. The look of hatred, despair, and desperation hung heavy in the dark circles under their eyes. 

It was quiet. No joyous songs of victory had been sung since the earlier days of battle. Now, only coughs and heavy sighs and treasonous whispers could be heard in the late hours of the night. 

He caught a glimpse of Samandriel being wrapped in a small fox pelt by a broad-shouldered man. The soldier pat him on the arm, giving him a reassuring nod and placing something into his palm before leading him back to a warm fire. When Samandriel caught Castiel’s eye, he looked away quickly, as if he’d be lashed for even looking at a Child of the Holy. 

But Castiel was the one who should be hiding his face. Letting the Auxilia, no, his people go hungry and cold like this. Death was already too common among soldiers. He couldn't watch them struggle to find warmth around dwindling fires and food for their empty stomachs while the legions slept comfortably with fattened bellies and warm hearts from their recent travels to the Holy Lands, home.

What were numbers if so many were on the brink of starvation and hypothermia? How could the king be so cruel? How could he be so uncaring, and yet the responsibility to care was his alone! 

Castiel couldn't stay silent. He had stayed silent for over a decade, only finding invisible ways to help his people, help alleviate their suffering. He had to do something. 

“Balthazar.”

His personal guard shifted closer and lowered his voice, as if he already know what Castiel was planning. “Yes, my prince?”

Castile set his jaw. “Follow me.”

His guard returned a mischievous grin and nodded. “Of course, your majesty.”

____________

When the two reached the privacy of the prince’s tent, Balthazar let his stiff posture drop as he shook off the flurries from his short cropped hair and plopped into Castiel's mattress, grabbing a few grapes from the silver platter on the bedside table. 

“So, how are we planning flip the bird to daddy dearest this time, Cassie?” Balthazar said popping a grape in his mouth loudly. 

“I told you not to call me that anymore, Balt.” Castiel said, but really he didn't care enough at the moment to argue about a childhood nickname, no matter how much he disliked it. Instead, he began rummaging through the large trunks around the tent. 

“My apologies, your majesty,” Balt toyed. “I forgot you get all bent out of sorts just before battle. Maybe you just need to have your very capable personal guard find you a handsome lister for the night. Who could say no to the dark, brooding, sexy king-to-be? Dear old Dad would never have to know.” Balt waggled his eyebrows from his perch on the bed. Castiel paused and gave him a look that he hoped was a bitter scowl, knowing all too well how ridiculous he proposition was on multiple levels. Apparently his expression succeeded, because Balt raised his hands in surrender. “Kidding! Look, I get it, alright? I'd feel this way too if the king brought up one of the worst memories of my existence and threatened me with it... Do you want to talk about it?” Castiel didn't respond, tossing items out of the trunks. “What the hell are you looking for?”

“Supplies.”

“For--?”

“These people are starving, Balt. If Michael isn’t going to hold off battle until more shipments for the Auxilia, maybe he’ll hold off for the Holy Host.”

“Wait, you’re not going to do what I think you are, are you?” Castiel rolled his eyes but didn't look his direction, maintaining focus on the leather packs he filled with clean wraps. “Stealing stock? From the Holy Host? Have you gone mad?”

“My sanity is still fully intact. We’ll use the Auxilia side streets and go between watch guard shifts. I have no doubt we will go undetected. Especially with the snowfall.”

“We?”

Castiel gave him a pointed look. 

“We,” he gestured between the two of them, “cannot do this.”

“I can't risk Michael knowing what I'm going to do before I even have a chance to do it. You're the only person I can trust.”

“I’m fairly certain when they go to provide rations to the Holy Host tomorrow, they’re going to notice. And when Michael gets word of this little moonlight requisition, we’ll both lose our head! Not only is this treason, but you do realize that’s an entire army down there who have no loyalties to the Holy Ones, right?”

“Fine, then stay. But I'm heading out as soon as it's dark. The least you could do is keep watch here while I’m gone.” Castiel turned back to the wooden trunk.

“Cassie. I can't let you do this.” Balt got up from the bed and pulled on Castiel’s arm, forcing him to face Balt’s hard expression. “The king was right. You’re not one of them anymore. How do you think they're going to respond to a Holy Child waltzing around the camp unprotected? And not just any Holy Child--Michael’s successor.”

“I'm well aware of what I am. Which is exactly why I have to go down there. They need to know that not everyone in my family is as cold as this winter.”

“But--”

“No!” Castiel shouted, abruptly cutting off his counter argument. “I may cower in the face of my father’s tyranny, but I will not cower in the face of duty to my people. And they are my people. Do you really expect me not to even try to help them? If that’s true, then you are no better than my so-called father.”

Balt stared at him hard before his brows softened at the chastening. 

“Well, when you say it like that…” he said with a sarcastic quirk of his mouth.

Balt was a good man. One of the best. And Cas would always need him by his side. “I would rather die for doing what I know in my heart to be right than watch innocent men and women suffer for naught. “So will you help me?”

Balt’s ice blue irises twinkling in the dim light of the tent shifted between his own until he let out a forceful exhale in resignation. He tenderly took Castiel’s hand in both of his.

“Of course, your majesty.”

 

_________________________

 

They waited for cover of darkness before sneaking to the royal stables. They made it to Ezekiel’s stall when the clydesdale whinnied in a panic at being roused from sleep. 

“Shh-shh, it’s alright Zeke, it’s only me,” Castiel soothed.

“See? I told you he hated me,” Balt huffed.

“That can’t be a new experience for you...” Castiel whispered back.

“Did I just detect sarcasm, my dear Cassie?” Balt guffawed.

“I told you not to call me that!” Cas said annoyed, and a little too loudly. The two silenced and waited for any signs of approach. 

When no one came and the horses settled, Castiel and Balt made quick work of removing Zeke’s armor and strapping his up to the wagon. His sabino coloring would make it difficult for him to be spotted in the thickness of falling flurries. Hopefully they could stay quiet enough to go unnoticed by the king’s guards posted around the encampment as they made their way to the Legion storehouses.

It was much less than Castiel hoped to offer them, but they collected everything that could fit in a small wagon: two large pots of hot broth, jugs of fresh water from the cisterns, dried meat and fruits, grains, fresh bandages, and as many blankets as they could, along with the provisions he and Balt could spare from their own personal lodgings.

It wasn't much in comparison to the amount of supplies in the storehouse that were being “reserved” for difficult times. Or in the face of the whole Auxilia. A small wagon wouldn’t be much help, but still. It was something.

It didn’t take long before they felt growing unease with every bump of the carriage. It was putting Castiel on edge. Balt said as much when he breathed “we are so getting quartered for this” just loud enough for Castiel to hear.

As they made their way to the outskirts of the encampment, the prince stopped before continuing into the open. 

“What is it?” Balt asked. 

For the first time in a very long time, Castiel felt afraid. Who knew how he was condemning himself by walking through the camp in the dark of night with naught but a single guard?

For as long as he could remember, he’d been accompanied by an entire squadron of the Holy Guard. He never thought to think of why that was, only that traitors and assassins lie in wait, and those unloyal to the crown would have his head.

If he were to bridge the divide with the Holy and the commoners, he was going to have to overcome his fears. These were worthy warriors. His people. He’d already established that when he ransacked his own tent for provisions for these men. 

Now was not the time for fear.

“It's nothing.” Castiel swallowed the lump in his throat and marched into the camp. 

________________________________

 

Castiel and Balt dismounted from Zeke and the wagon when they reached the first row of tents. There were groups of individuals huddled around fires. One caught sight of Castiel and gasped, smacking the soldier next to him, until he had drawn the attention of every soldier present. None of them spoke, or bowed, as Castiel had been raised to expect. They just stood there waiting. 

Balt glanced at him from the corner of his eye. 

“I, uh… I’ve brought food and blankets...It isn’t much, but...” Castiel fumbled with his words. 

The soldiers remained in silence. 

“I also have clean bandages. And water.” He indicated to the pack on his shoulder. 

When still no one responded, he walked carefully to the back of the wagon and began unloading the contents on the ground and placed the large kettle and packs on the ground without meeting the soldier’s questioning gazes. They looked at the two men with skepticism and curiosity. Maybe even gratitude. Anger was far from their expression. 

Small mercies, Castiel thought.

The soldiers didn't speak as they began divided the provisions evenly between the ones that were present without a word. One of whom being Samandriel. The pelt that he’d been given now rested on another man’s shoulders, warming as many as it could. For a short time, at least… Anything to alleviate the painful chill. 

“Thank you, sire,” Samandriel was the first to speak after the wagon was emptied. 

Why are you thanking me? Castiel wanted to ask. Castiel was a coward and a fraud. It had taken him until this point to face them without demanding their obedience and loyalty, just like his Father. As much as he wanted to believe he was nothing like the King, he knew the truth. 

He wasn’t a hero. 

These recruits surrounding him, fighting just so they can one day go home to their families and live out their lives in whatever peace they can find under tyranny. These warriors who give up the warm pelt off their backs for those suffering around them. These soldiers were the heroes. And they deserved so much more than lukewarm broth and small squares of scratchy wool.

“You’ve earned more than a little comfort, Samandriel.” Samandriel’s eyes widened for a moment before he smiled shyly.

Castiel and Balthazar collected the empty packs and were about to head back before the group began speaking again amongst themselves.

“We should take some of this to Sam,” a red-headed woman with porcelain skin whispered to a bulky man who looked like the most highly ranked among those present. “He needs this more than we do.”

The burly, rugged man nodded, looking down at his feet. “And Dean.”

“Who is Dean?” At the name, the soldiers go silent again with their eyes locked on Castiel. “And Sam? Are they ill?” Castiel asked.

The brawny man shared a long look with the woman before resigning to answer the prince. “I'll take you to ‘em.”

He gestured for Castiel to follow and Castiel collected a few of the supplies. He could feel the stares on the back of his head, but he retained his composure as he walked side-by-side with the soldier through the maze of thin white fabric designed for warmer weather. 

Balt remained close behind, a small comfort to Castiel despite being led into the lonely darkness of the camp with people who owed him nothing. He suppressed the urge to grab the hilt of the sword at his hip in self defense, but if he was attacked, they would be justified in doing so.

When they were further away from the group, Castiel spoke. “What is your name, soldier?”

“Sergeant Benjamin Lafitte of Unit 13, 8th Squadron, your Highness. But most ‘round here just call me Benny.” 

“Benny. I will remember that.”

“No need, your Highness. Best you keep your thoughts on the war effort,” Benny said emotionless.

“That is precisely why I'm here,” Castiel murmured, remembering his spat with Balt earlier. 

Benny glanced at Cas from the corner of his eye, but didn't say more.

Castiel could hear Balt’s footsteps landing a little harder. After their previous conversation and knowing Castiel better than anyone else, he was sure Balt interpreted Benny’s comment an insult to his prince and was preparing to let this soldier have it. 

He threw a look back at Balt to keep him from doing anything stupid, and the group grew quiet again. 

“It’s quiet tonight, don’t you think?”

Benny hummed scanning the darkness for any signs of movement. Before long, Castiel couldn't help himself. His nerves settled and the further they walked without altercation, the more his thoughts wandered to other things. 

“Who are these men you’re taking me to? You said they were ill?” 

“Just Samuel. Dean’s… Well, Dean’s his brother keeper. When Sammy ain't okay, Dean ain't okay.” Benny chuckled under his breath as if he has just made a joke. None of it seemed funny to Castiel. 

“They are brothers?” 

Benny nodded in confirmation. 

“And they joined the war efforts together, I assume.”

Benny huffed a humorless laugh, keeping his eyes on anything but Castiel. “You could say that.”

Benny’s expression told Castiel there was much that he didn’t understand. He wanted to ask, but Castiel could tell he wasn't going to be given an answer. He remained quiet instead. 

Castiel half expected Benny to remained silent for the duration of the long walk to the scout tents, but Benny continued. 

“Anyway, Dean hasn't been the same since Sammy took sick. And it’s no good to anyone for Dean of Winchester to be...whatever he is right now, your Grace.”

“You care for him.” It wasn't a question. Benny spoke of Dean with familiarity and fondness. They were friends; that much was obvious. Castiel wondered to himself if they had known each other before the war. 

“Dean is good man,” he said with a nod. “And a damn fine soldier. We all need him to win this war.”

Did they? “Dean of Winchester… I don't think I recall seeing his name among the ranks.”

Benny’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but he shrugged. “Makes sense, I suppose. Dean ain't highly ranked or nothin’, your majesty. Just a lowly lister, like his brother,” Benny explained. “Picked him up with all those other new listers after 6 months back.” 

Castiel nodded. Jericho. He remembered how angry his father was after the first assault on the city. It was a battle he never intended to lose, catching him unprepared for the sheer number of enemy soldiers. 

The easily defended city was a keep, built into the mountain walls and deep into its caverns below. The only path to the city was through the valley. Their army had been surrounded and forced to retreat. The King had been overzealous, reckless, after the countless victories until that point. He had no choice but to pull back his soldiers and strategize for a future assault.

It was after Jericho that Michael realized his numbers were dwindling, and numbers with wars. The armies of the Holy City slowly diminished the further west he fought. To preserve the Holy Host, actual citizens of Providence and those loyal to the crown, Michael started recruiting from liberated cities. 

Most of the enlisted men and women were nothing more than farmers. They had never seen war. Listers they were referred to. No rank, no face, no name. Nothing to give them identity or significance. Only numbers for Michael’s war machine. 

Dean must have been one of these recruits, from outside the Holy City. Who exactly was this commoner?

“Ever since Dean got here, though, it's just been different,” Benny continued. 

“Different?”

Benny gave him a surprised looked. Surprised he didn't already know. Surprised at the thought an enlisted man could be so charismatic with the soldiers at his rank and experience. Surprised that Castiel was asking so many questions of someone so humble, he wasn't sure. 

Castiel knew that after Jericho, something changed. It wasn't the defeat that gave the soldiers their resolve, it wasn't any reward or threat promised by their king to ensure their future victories. He had a hard time believing that their following success could be attributed to one man, though. Especially since the Host was pulled back to the Holy City for defense and their numbers replaced by farmboys. 

But the next attack on the city, just weeks after training the new recruits, they took Jericho before the sun set that same day. 

Benny smiled at Castiel, kind and apologetic, then turned back to the darkened path ahead of him. 

Castiel didn't press it, even if he could force Benny to tell him. But he didn't need to hear anymore. These recruits respected Dean, even as a lister. Castiel would do what he could for them. If that meant help this Dean and Samuel of Winchester, then that’s what he was going to do. 

They passed by several more rows of tents. The chill of the wind and melted flakes had started soaking through Castiel’s armor and underclothes; he missed the comfort of his own warm tent. He mentally chastised himself for the thought and turned his attention back to his soldiers. 

“How long has Samuel been sick?”

Benny hesitated. “A while. Last night he took a turn for the worse. You picked a mighty good time to show up, your Highness.”

With that, Benny stopped outside a thinning tent, holding open the entrance for his prince.

Castiel thanked Benny for the escort and turned to Balt. He nodded once for him to stay with Benny outside. Balt nodded in understanding and turned a cold look toward Benny as Castiel entered the tent. 

__________________________

 

On the opposite side of the tent lie a young boy no more than fifteen on a dingy bed roll. His skin was slick with sweat, pale like he hadn't seen the sun in months, his eyes sunken, enhancing the gaunt of his cheekbones. He coughed a few times before he went back to his labored breathing, eyes clenched shut. 

Sitting at his side was the broad-shouldered man who had given the fox pelt to Samandriel. Castiel couldn't see much of his features at such a great distance before, but now that he was within arms reach, he could see just how strong he was. His hair was cut short, skin rough and tan from what looked like years of outdoor labor. The angle of his nose complimented the edge of his stubbled jawline.

All of those pleasant details faded when a pair of twin emeralds met him.

After a long moment, Castiel exhaled the breath he had been unconsciously holding when Dean’s released his gaze. Dean let his eyes flick down Castiel’s body and back up, and tent suddenly felt much warmer than the weather permitted. 

Confusion and surprised recognition finally flooded Dean’s expression until dismissal found its way to the surface.

Castiel suddenly felt more insecure than he’s been with the other soldiers. They had been much more receptive to their prince. But with Dean, it were as if the King himself could enter his tent and he would no sooner bow than he would cut off his own hand. 

“To what do I owe the honor of your presence?” Dean said turning back, wiping the sweat from his brother’s brow with a filthy rag dipped with water from a small basin at the head of Sam’s bedroll. 

It was not customary for a commoner to speak before being addressed themselves, let alone not address him without a title of royalty, turning his back on him. Castiel found this irksome, despite his hatred for his own position.

Letting the pendulum swing back to false pride after hours of self loathing, he bristled, “As your prince, Lister, I am here to help you.” 

Dean looked back to Castiel, obviously fighting the urge to say something more. He took note of the pack in Castiel’s hands. 

Sam began to cough, lungs sounding full of fluid. Dean winced at the sound and turned back toward his brother, helping him sit up as much as he could until the fit subsided. 

Dean let out a shaky sigh.

“I heard your brother was sick,” Castiel explained with sympathy, despite his irritation. “I brought water, blankets...clean linens. And some hot broth, though it may have cooled some on the walk here.”

Castiel handed him the container of broth and walked to the shallow basin. He replaced the dirty water with what was left of his own waterskin. He dampened a clean cloth, walked back to the sick soldier lying on the bedroll, and knelt beside him. 

Dean didn't move, giving Castiel no room to work, but not stopping him from pressing his palm to the sick soldier’s forehead.

No, not a soldier. This child. Castiel had been no older than Sam during his first battle, but still... To allow someone to know the pain of war so young, it seemed cruel now. 

Sam’s head radiated so much heat, it felt scalding to Castiel’s chilled hand. He mumbled a short incantation under his breath and his eyes began to glow a faint blue, feeling his Grace being transferred to Sam. Sam’s pain was visibly eased by the time Castiel had placed the wet rag to the boy’s forehead to wipe away the sweat. 

Castiel could almost feel Dean’s wide, piercing eyes watching him work. Since he was used to constant attention from the people surrounding him, Castiel tried remained unperturbed by Dean’s studying. But something about this particular man made him feel self conscious. 

He put the waterskin to the boy’s lips, urging him to drink while balancing his neck with his other hand. 

Sam cough a few times, but drank a large portion of the water. 

Castiel wiped his mouth dry and gently settle him back under the wool blanket. 

“Would you like to eat?” Sam conveyed an affirmative as much as he could manage. 

Castiel reached for the broth Dean was still holding. 

“I'll do it,” Dean said, and Castiel nodded, letting Dean take his place next to Sam.

“I'm fairly certain your brother has pneumonia,” Castiel said. 

“Ya think?” Dean retorted and continued to lift Sam’s head to the ladle of broth. 

“Yes, I do,” Castiel said, at which Dean rolled his eyes. 

“Did you come here just to see how much more you can wring out of your listers before they all fall over dead?” Dean asked casually, though something about his tone seemed anything but.

“No,” Castiel replied, confused. 

“I’m not trained in healing, but I’ve lowered his fever and eased some pain. He should remain bedridden until I can call upon my physician--healer actually--Jessica to tend to him. But until then, the best medicine is water and rest.”

Dean’s head whipped toward Castiel at the mention of a healer. The sudden closeness and shift of attention was uncomfortable but not a completely unpleasant feeling, so Castiel didn't look away until Dean turned back to assist Sam. 

They sat in silence for a moment Sam finished the remainder of the broth and lay back down to sleep. 

“So how’d you know about Sam? What brought you here...your Highness?” Dean added hesitantly. 

“You may call me Castiel, if you wish. And, Benja--Benny told me that you were in need of provisions and lead me to your tent on foot. I am not sure I would have been able to find you without his guidance.” 

“Alright, Castiel.” The name sounded foreign on his tongue. “Well, I get how you got here,” Dean said. “What I mean is why.”

“I’m here to bring provi--”

“No, you’re not understanding me. Why here? Why now?” Dean continued when Castiel just looked at him. “We’ve been tired, and sick, and hungry for months and now all of a sudden, you show up in the middle of the night with some soup and blankets. What gives? Why the change of heart?”

Castiel inhaled deeply and examined Sam for a while silently as he found his way into unconsciousness. 

“My mother...when I was young, had contracted pneumonia. For weeks, I sat at her bedside, tending to her needs, trying to learn what I could from the healers, and keeping her entertained with music and current events. She...told me things about our kingdom. Things I didn't want to believe at the time. Just stories, I told myself.” Castiel fiddled with a cloth that had somehow found it’s way into his hands. Why was he telling this lister anything? “He came to visit her. My father--the king,” he corrected. “Just once. Just before the signing of the Angelos Carta.” Dean shifted uncomfortably at the reference. “And then she...” He didn't continue. Dean probably knew the rumors anyway.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Why, indeed. He hadn't told anyone this before, but somehow a few moments with this lister, he was sharing his darkest memories. He had experienced what Benny had meant about Dean. There was something about him that made Castiel feel...what was he feeling?

He looked into Dean’s eyes for a long moment trying to figure out just that. Before Dean could look away in the uncomfortable silence, Castiel said simply, “I am sorry for your struggle, Dean of Winchester.”

Dean gave him a confused look, but nodded.

With nothing more to say, Castiel stood and collected the fully empty pack and kettle and headed for the tent opening. 

“Thank you, your majesty.” 

Castiel turned back to see Dean's kind, emerald eyes, and smiled softly back. 

“Castiel,” he correctly lightly. “My physician will be here shortly.” 

____________

When Castiel exited the tent, Balthazar and Benny were standing face to face, fists clenched and ready for an assault.

“Balthazar!” Castiel called, defusing whatever was about to happen. Balt slowly stepped away from the soldier without looking away. 

Benny’s eyes were still narrowed when he turned to face his prince. 

“I’ll be sending my physician to check on Sam once I return to my tent. I can have her meet you at the campfire. Will you escort her from there?”

Benny raised his eyebrows before nodding once.  
“‘Course.”

“Thank you.” Castiel turned to Balt. “Come, Balthazar,” he commanded. Balt shot a crooked smile with a deliberate wink at Benny before leaving with his prince. 

“What was that about?” Castiel asked when they were out of earshot. 

“Oh, just making new friends is all,” Balt replied nonchalantly.

Castiel frowned out the response, but wouldn’t press it further. “Come on. Let’s get back before someone starts looking for us.”


End file.
